


Not out of place at all

by Derry Rain (smakibbfb)



Series: The Terror Hip Bingo [4]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Graham is definitely already dead, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Not A Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:41:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26774551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smakibbfb/pseuds/Derry%20Rain
Summary: Just a little musing on the death of one Harry Goodsir.
Relationships: Harry D. S. Goodsir/Lt Graham Gore
Series: The Terror Hip Bingo [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1886383
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Not out of place at all

**Author's Note:**

> _We're forced to bed  
>  But we're free to dream  
> All us human extras  
> All us herded beings  
> And after a glimpse  
> Over the top  
> The rest of the world  
> Becomes a gift shop_ \- Gift Shop, The Tragically Hip

“You deserved a better death,” Goodsir says, as Graham sits heavily down on the bed beside him. The lieutenant smiles, wryly, an expression that Harry doesn’t remember ever seeing before. It doesn’t sit well on his open face.

“In that I’m far from alone,” Gore replies. His hand is warm where he places it atop Harry’s own. He curls his fingers, and brings his knuckles to his lips. _Careful_ , Harry wants to say, in a flash of momentary panic, _it isn’t safe_. But Gore kisses his fingers anyway, turns Harry’s palm over and places a kiss there too. His eyes – oh, how Harry has missed his eyes – look deep into Harry’s own, and the racing in his heart subsides. There is kindness there, kindness and bravery and –

“I’ve missed you,” Harry confesses, “so very, very much.”

Graham’s thumb is rubbing circles over Harry’s wrist; it does not hurt. Nothing hurts anymore, and when he glances down at where their hands are joined, there is no blood.

“I can’t regret it, you know,” Graham tells him, ducking his head slightly. The low light catches the hints of red-gold in his hair and Harry wants to tell him how beautiful he is, to shower him with all the caresses and compliments he could not quite bring himself to before. _Before_. It seems almost ludicrous that his tongue still feels so thick, so heavy in his mouth, like propriety, like _anything_ matters anymore. “It would have been just as cruel a death to leave without ever meeting you.” His free hand strokes Harry’s face, the touch so alien in its careful compassion. “Worse, even. I wouldn’t even know what I had lost.”

Harry’s eyes fill with tears, but he doesn’t feel sad. Graham is _here_ , with _him_ and there’s nothing left in his soul to feel but the gravity of his presence. He remembers another time, another place, somewhere so long and far ago that it almost feels like the memory belongs to another man. He remembers Graham’s face, his lips, his body pressed so gently, so _reverently_ against the wooden wall of a cabin. He remembers whispers in darkness and laughter in light, the animation of wild and wicked stories that neither of them cared to verify the truth of. He remembers sorrow, yes, but chiefly, he remembers what it feels like to be loved.

He cannot move his head to meet Graham where he is; his body feels heavy, and he supposes it isn’t quite his anymore anyway. Still, he feels the shifting of the bed, and the ecstasy of peace when Graham leans down and kisses him.

Harry thinks of blue eyes and white fur, of the smell of paper and pitch and blood.

He thinks of the glitter of light off sealskin, the crunch of a footprint in snow, of the sound of a football bouncing over rock and ice.

He thinks of water that rises and falls and rises and falls over and over and over again, heedless of the creatures that try to know it.

And Harry does not think at all.


End file.
